


little baby

by cool_dude



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Banjo, Coffee, Drugs, F/M, Internal Conflict, Internalized Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Pre-Canon, Relationship Issues, Secret Crush, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 16:52:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15369027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cool_dude/pseuds/cool_dude
Summary: fiddleford invites stanford over to meet his kid and his wife, but it's obvious things aren't going well.





	little baby

He almost doesn’t come. Even on the welcome mat, he’s so tempted to make a break for it and dash into the woods and never come back. He’s a little scared, if he’s being honest with himself; it’s been so long for  _ them _ , and he doesn’t want to meet  _ her _ . He doesn’t want to ruin the picture he’s made of her, in which she’s just like him, except she has no goals or aspirations as he does. She chose to settle down rather than pursue a career, after all. 

The picture can’t be that inaccurate, after all Fiddleford’s told him. He enters the house, all tight like a wind-up toy, and instantly feels on edge. 

“Ford!!” a voice calls, and there’s an ominous crashing sound that is all too familiar. Out comes Fiddleford, covered in copper wire with electrodes plastered to his scalp. He smiles sheepishly, shaking off wire clippings. “Hey, don’t judge before ya hear the whole story.” 

The scene throws Ford back to his days in college- one in particular, actually, when Fiddleford had attempted to program a robot directly from his mind. It was not very successful. 

A smile breaks him, and Ford rushes forward and embraces his old friend. “Fiddleford!! It’s been too long!” Fiddleford is just the same as he had been in college- same hairstyle, same friendly face, same lanky figure and Southern drawl. All seems the same except for his scent, which contains a more discreet reek of marijuana. 

“Nice ta see you to, partner,” Fiddleford laughs, then sobers up. He points to the electrodes. “Now, don’t freak out. I swear, this ain’t like that time I tried to program a robot with my brain.”

“Are you sure? Because that’s what it-”

“It ain’t, because this time I’m just EEG’n my brain waves, which won’t produce 400 volts of electricity an’ set me on fire, Einstein.” He gives Ford a pointed look.  

Ford snickers, Fiddleford cracks a smile, and they erupt into pointless laughter. 

After a moment, Fiddleford straightens and rests his hand on Ford’s shoulder. “Come on, you should meet my kid.”

The kid is absolutely tiny. Sure, Ford had seen babies before, but he had always tried to maintain a distance, lest they react to his… abnormalities. Now, he understands why people are so astounded by birth, how they latch onto their children so completely. It’s because the kids are so, so small.

“He has your nose,” Ford remarks pleasantly. 

“Shut up,” Fiddleford nudges him. 

The kid- Tate- is in the arms of the woman. Her name is Kate. Her body is plump, her face is round, and only one tired eye is visible beneath her curtain of brown hair. It’s the only trait she and Ford seem to share. 

“Nice to meet you,” Stanford greets her, holds out his hand, pulls it back quickly. Kate smiles, agrees, and tells Fiddleford to let her and the baby sleep. 

They leave the room quietly, move out to the back porch. “Damn, it’s freezing,” Ford says as a gust hits him. 

“Don’t curse,” Fiddleford says, looking out at the backyard. He finds a cigarette in his pocket and brings it to his mouth. 

Against his better judgement, Ford stays quiet. Instead, he says, “I thought she was a chemist.”

Fiddleford scratches his scalp, underneath an electrode. “She’s been...  _ tired _ ever since Tate’s been born. Sleepin’ a lot, just focusin’ on the baby. Tried to explain it to those- those hospital  _ owners _ who have never known a day of pain in their lives- an’ they  _ fired _ her!  _ Fired _ her!!! The  _ nerve _ !!!”

He lights the cigarette and puffs hard, arms crossed, the lines in his face pulled taught.  

Ford tries to think of what to say. “I’m… really sorry, Fiddleford. Wow. I didn’t know.” 

He closes his eyes. “No need to be sorry. Lord knows anyone in their right mind would love to have my wife workin’ at their place. An soon… soon she’ll be up and workin’ again.”

He takes another long puff. Stanford glances at him. “ _ Will _ she?”

Fiddleford turns, glaring. “Of course she will. She has a masters’ in biochemistry,  _ of course she will _ ! What are you on about now?”

“Well… she seems… a bit burned out,” Stanford admits, then scratches his head. “Look, maybe she doesn’t want a job anymore. Lotts of women give up careers for their children, after they have them. I mean, of course, my Ma didn’t, but… she’s most likely not the best maternal role model.” He tries to chuckle, but it catches in his throat, stagnant in the cold.

Fiddleford glances at him for a moment. “Ya need a cig or are ya still too straight-laced to ‘stoop to my level’, Stanford?”

He hates smoking, but he takes the cigarette. Fiddleford lights it, sparking a fire from his pocket, and for a moment their faces are close, and Stanford can smell the tobacco and sweat and he can see every inch of discomfort in the man, every hair drawn out in frustration and worry. 

Then he pulls away, and the world seems a bit darker. Stanford breathes obediently, using the drug as a prosthetic. It rubs against his lungs like a knife. 

Fiddleford sighs out of his cigarette, leaving a ribbon of smoke. “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have invited you here. Not now.”

Stanford blanches. “Excuse me?”

“Ya know what I’m talkin’ about!” Fiddleford’s voice raises. “Ya just- ya just frolick in, actin like a- a-”

“Go ahead. Say it. Call me a- freak,” Stanford clenches his fists. Why couldn’t he just have walked away? Why did he have to go in?

Fiddleford looks at Stanford in realization. “Sorry, sorry. That was rude. I shouldn’t blame ya for my own problems.”

Ford glances down at his hand. He covers up his pinkie. There’s a lump in his throat he can’t swallow down, and a silence no words can fill.

After a moment, Fiddleford turns towards the door. “I... should prolly go check on Kate. Ya can stay out here if you like.”

Stanford scowls. “Fine. I’ll be out here.” His nose is freezing off. 

Five minutes later, the door opens with a sigh. Stanford’s frozen body creaks as he turns, facing Fiddleford. 

“Please come inside, Stanford,” Fiddleford says, halfway out the door, crooked, voice resigned. “I can’t leave ya out there. It’s twenty darn’ degrees.”

Some prideful part of him wants to refuse. He pushes it down and goes in the house.

Inside, Fiddleford shakily pours him a mug of coffee. The sharp scent reminds him of their college days, when the coffee maker was the body around which he and Fiddleford rotated. Without daily infusions of caffeine, they usually could hardly make it through school, let alone have strength for other projects. In the mornings, the pot sat half-empty, Fiddleford already gone, risen at the crack of dawn for his early class in mechanical engineering. The coffee would still be warm in his cold hands.

“She’s not well.” 

Stanford blanched. “You mean…. She’s not just tired?”

Fiddleford scowls. “Ya really are dense, Ford.” He sighs, looks tired. “I love her. I really do. I just…. I don’t think this is the woman I fell in love with.”

“What does she have?” Stanford asks, trying to wrap his head around it. “Cancer? Tuberculosis? AIDS?”

Fiddleford swats his hand angrily. “Ya know I don’t mean that.” He takes a draught of the coffee and pulls out another cigarette. He twists it over in his fingers. “I think she has chronic fatigue, or somethin’ like that. She don’t have her spark no more.” Suddenly, he looks frantic, like a scared animal. “Her eyes are  _ dead _ , Stanford- I think… I hope…”

The coffee’s strong. “Where’s your banjo?” Stanford breaks into a new subject. 

Fiddleford drops the cig. “Whaddya mean?”

“I think playing mi- I think strumming it might calm… your nerves.”

He scowls and purses his lips. “I ain’t no sissy, Ford. I don’t have…. nerve  _ problems… _ or anythin’ like that…” Still, he’s already picking up the instrument from behind his chair, hands already flitting over the strings. 

“Of course not, Fiddleford. You’re very strong,” Ford assures. Fiddleford plays a disgruntled chord in response. 

“Look, I know ya think I’m weak. But I’ve seen things you couldn't have ever dreamed of seein’. I’ve… I’ve….” His eyes glaze over, and his hand falls slack over the banjo strings. 

“Fiddleford!” Stanford shouts. Fiddleford, alert, leaps up, hand toppling his mug, crashing down, down, down onto the carpet. 

“Sweet Suzanna,” Fiddleford mutters, palming his sweaty face. He glances up. “Stanford, hand me that washcloth, would ya?”

Stanford obliges. He feels very awkward, as if he’s intruding on a personal matter. Fiddleford looks too thin, too gaunt, and a little broken. With his wife and child in the next room, it feels… humiliating. 

Then again, he’s no stranger to personal matters. 

Fiddleford resumes his position on the chair and takes the banjo up again. “There. All… clean n’ proper.” 

Stanford takes another sip of coffee. “Maybe you… should try playing again.”

“Ain’t no point in it. I’m no good anyways.”

Unfortunately, Stanford is no banjo connoisseur. He clears his throat awkwardly. “You’re… not bad. Weren’t you working on something when you left?” 

Fiddleford rubs his head bashfully. “Yeah… but it never quite came together.”

“Maybe I can help you out,” Ford suggests. “I do know a lot about music theory. I studied wave frequency in high school.”

“Science and music are completely different fields, Stanford,” Fiddleford rolls his eyes. “But alright. Let’s see.”

He brings his hands back onto the banjo as a collector might handle an antique. The notes are long and smooth and soft as he plucks them out, like butter. It’s like they are barely there, but they still make all the difference.

He moves over a few frets and begins strumming in a minor key, and he sings a shaky tune. A lullaby. 

“Hey, little baby, where’d you go?

An’ why won’t you let me follow?

Hey, little baby you’re gone I know

But I still can’t let my love go.”

Fiddleford brings his eyes up and abruptly stops. “So whaddya think?”  
“You use the word ‘go’ too much,” Stanford blurts instantly. “It shows a lack of creativity.”

“It shows a  _ motif _ , Stanford,” Fiddleford rolls his eyes and puts down the banjo. “Well. That’s what I get from asking  _ you _ , I guess.”

“N-” Stanford reaches for the banjo, then clears his throat. “I- I really liked it, is what I meant. It’s beautiful, Fiddleford; I was just trying to  _ advise _ you.”

Fiddleford nods. “I mean, you’re right. I hate the lyrics. Still hurts, though.”

“I think the problem might be their abstract nature,” Stanford notes. His mug is nearly empty, and the grounds dance in the small circle of water. “For example, who is the little baby? Where is it going? Why wouldn’t it let you follow?”

Fiddleford rubs his head. His free hand fidgets a little on his bouncing knee. “I… It’s jus’ a stupid idea, anyways. I… should prolly check on Kate.”

Stanford grabs Fiddleford’s hand. He looks him right in the eye, and Ford instantly want to shy away, but he keeps at it, because  _ this _ is more important than a stupid insecurity. “Fiddleford, I have to leave tomorrow morning. My work is  _ extremely _ time sensitive, and I need to get bac-”

“Yeah, I know how it is,” Fiddleford shakes Ford off and straightens. “Well, I wish ya luck with that.”

“The point is, if there’s something really bothering you, I need to know  _ now _ . Before I leave.”

“I already told ya,” Fiddleford chews his lip. “Kate’s a lil’ tired now, but she’ll get better. It’s fine.”

Ford rubs his forehead. “Look, if you need money, you know I can always-”

“I don’t need your fancy grant money, Stanford,” Fiddleford scowls. “I already told ya, I’m  _ fine _ .”

“Having money issues is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Fiddleford takes up his mug and fixes Ford with a stare. “We’re not havin’ issues. I’ll show you to your room.”

“When I was a kid, my Ma and Pa were always on the verge of bankruptcy-”

“Ford, please shut up,” Fiddleford says, with such exhaustion that Stanford bites his words short. He follows Fiddleford instead.

The ranch house is small, so Ford is surprised when Fiddleford shows him to a spare bedroom with ample space. There’s even a desk, underneath the bare window. Ford almost wishes he'd brought his work with him. God knows those creatures weren't going to catalog themselves.

“There ya go,” Fiddleford gestures with a hint of exasperation in his voice. “I’m goin’ out for another smoke, so if ya need me, I’ll be out back.”

Against his common sense, Ford blurts out, “That’s really not healthy, you know.”

Fiddleford looks at Ford. He shakes his head. “Of course I know it ain’t healthy.” He leaves.

Stanford is left alone. He sits down on the bed in the dark and thinks. He doesn’t stop thinking.

The next day, Stanford sees the tiny child again, says goodbye to Kate despite the knot in his gut. The last person he leaves is Fiddleford McGucket. It’s obvious he didn’t sleep. It’s obvious what he’d been smoking. Somehow, despite the myriad of arguments between them, he doesn’t look mad. He just looks vulnerable, and skinny, in his baggy clothes.

“I wish I could’ve helped you more,” Stanford admits in the biting cold, as he shoulders his jacket.

To this, Fiddleford lets out a peal of laughter. His face straightens out quickly, but there is no mistaking the joy in his eyes. “Stanford Pines, you are the most oblivious man I’ve ever met.”

As Stanford gets into his car, as Stanford leaves Palo Alto, even as Stanford pulls into his own home in Gravity Falls, he still wonders what on earth Fiddleford meant. 

**Author's Note:**

> hey gf fandom. it's been a while.


End file.
